My Ántonia

by Willa Cather

  II

  ONE March evening in my Sophomore year I was sitting alone in my roomafter supper. There had been a warm thaw all day, with mushy yards andlittle streams of dark water gurgling cheerfully into the streets out ofold snow-banks. My window was open, and the earthy wind blowing throughmade me indolent. On the edge of the prairie, where the sun had gone down,the sky was turquoise blue, like a lake, with gold light throbbing in it.Higher up, in the utter clarity of the western slope, the evening starhung like a lamp suspended by silver chains--like the lamp engraved uponthe title-page of old Latin texts, which is always appearing in newheavens, and waking new desires in men. It reminded me, at any rate, toshut my window and light my wick in answer. I did so regretfully, and thedim objects in the room emerged from the shadows and took their placeabout me with the helpfulness which custom breeds.

  I propped my book open and stared listlessly at the page of the Georgicswhere to-morrow's lesson began. It opened with the melancholy reflectionthat, in the lives of mortals, the best days are the first to flee."Optima dies {~HORIZONTAL ELLIPSIS~} prima fugit." I turned back to the beginning of the thirdbook, which we had read in class that morning. "Primus ego in patriammecum {~HORIZONTAL ELLIPSIS~} deducam Musas"; "for I shall be the first, if I live, to bring theMuse into my country." Cleric had explained to us that "patria" heremeant, not a nation or even a province, but the little rural neighborhoodon the Mincio where the poet was born. This was not a boast, but a hope,at once bold and devoutly humble, that he might bring the Muse (but latelycome to Italy from her cloudy Grecian mountains), not to the capital, thepalatia Romana, but to his own little "country"; to his father's fields,"sloping down to the river and to the old beech trees with broken tops."

  Cleric said he thought Virgil, when he was dying at Brindisi, must haveremembered that passage. After he had faced the bitter fact that he was toleave the AEneid unfinished, and had decreed that the great canvas, crowdedwith figures of gods and men, should be burned rather than survive himunperfected, then his mind must have gone back to the perfect utterance ofthe Georgics, where the pen was fitted to the matter as the plough is tothe furrow; and he must have said to himself with the thankfulness of agood man, "I was the first to bring the Muse into my country."

  We left the classroom quietly, conscious that we had been brushed by thewing of a great feeling, though perhaps I alone knew Cleric intimatelyenough to guess what that feeling was. In the evening, as I sat staring atmy book, the fervor of his voice stirred through the quantities on thepage before me. I was wondering whether that particular rocky strip of NewEngland coast about which he had so often told me was Cleric's patria.Before I had got far with my reading I was disturbed by a knock. I hurriedto the door and when I opened it saw a woman standing in the dark hall.

  "I expect you hardly know me, Jim."

  The voice seemed familiar, but I did not recognize her until she steppedinto the light of my doorway and I beheld--Lena Lingard! She was so quietlyconventionalized by city clothes that I might have passed her on thestreet without seeing her. Her black suit fitted her figure smoothly, anda black lace hat, with pale-blue forget-me-nots, sat demurely on heryellow hair.

  I led her toward Cleric's chair, the only comfortable one I had,questioning her confusedly.

  She was not disconcerted by my embarrassment. She looked about her withthe naive curiosity I remembered so well. "You are quite comfortable here,are n't you? I live in Lincoln now, too, Jim. I'm in business for myself.I have a dressmaking shop in the Raleigh Block, out on O Street. I've madea real good start."

  "But, Lena, when did you come?"

  "Oh, I've been here all winter. Did n't your grandmother ever write you?I've thought about looking you up lots of times. But we've all heard whata studious young man you've got to be, and I felt bashful. I did n't knowwhether you'd be glad to see me." She laughed her mellow, easy laugh, thatwas either very artless or very comprehending, one never quite knew which."You seem the same, though,--except you're a young man, now, of course. Doyou think I've changed?"

  "Maybe you're prettier--though you were always pretty enough. Perhaps it'syour clothes that make a difference."

  "You like my new suit? I have to dress pretty well in my business." Shetook off her jacket and sat more at ease in her blouse, of some soft,flimsy silk. She was already at home in my place, had slipped quietly intoit, as she did into everything. She told me her business was going well,and she had saved a little money.

  "This summer I'm going to build the house for mother I've talked about solong. I won't be able to pay up on it at first, but I want her to have itbefore she is too old to enjoy it. Next summer I'll take her down newfurniture and carpets, so she'll have something to look forward to allwinter."

  I watched Lena sitting there so smooth and sunny and well cared-for, andthought of how she used to run barefoot over the prairie until after thesnow began to fly, and how Crazy Mary chased her round and round thecornfields. It seemed to me wonderful that she should have got on so wellin the world. Certainly she had no one but herself to thank for it.

  "You must feel proud of yourself, Lena," I said heartily. "Look at me;I've never earned a dollar, and I don't know that I'll ever be able to."

  "Tony says you're going to be richer than Mr. Harling some day. She'salways bragging about you, you know."

  "Tell me, how _is_ Tony?"

  "She's fine. She works for Mrs. Gardener at the hotel now. She'shousekeeper. Mrs. Gardener's health is n't what it was, and she can't seeafter everything like she used to. She has great confidence in Tony.Tony's made it up with the Harlings, too. Little Nina is so fond of herthat Mrs. Harling kind of overlooked things."

  "Is she still going with Larry Donovan?"

  "Oh, that's on, worse than ever! I guess they're engaged. Tony talks abouthim like he was president of the railroad. Everybody laughs about it,because she was never a girl to be soft. She won't hear a word againsthim. She's so sort of innocent."

  I said I did n't like Larry, and never would.

  Lena's face dimpled. "Some of us could tell her things, but it would n'tdo any good. She'd always believe him. That's Antonia's failing, you know;if she once likes people, she won't hear anything against them."

  "I think I'd better go home and look after Antonia," I said.

  "I think you had." Lena looked up at me in frank amusement. "It's a goodthing the Harlings are friendly with her again. Larry's afraid of them.They ship so much grain, they have influence with the railroad people.What are you studying?" She leaned her elbows on the table and drew mybook toward her. I caught a faint odor of violet sachet. "So that's Latin,is it? It looks hard. You do go to the theater sometimes, though, for I'veseen you there. Don't you just love a good play, Jim? I can't stay at homein the evening if there's one in town. I'd be willing to work like aslave, it seems to me, to live in a place where there are theaters."

  "Let's go to a show together sometime. You are going to let me come to seeyou, are n't you?"

  "Would you like to? I'd be ever so pleased. I'm never busy after sixo'clock, and I let my sewing girls go at half-past five. I board, to savetime, but sometimes I cook a chop for myself, and I'd be glad to cook onefor you. Well,"--she began to put on her white gloves,--"it's been awfulgood to see you, Jim."

  "You need n't hurry, need you? You've hardly told me anything yet."

  "We can talk when you come to see me. I expect you don't often have ladyvisitors. The old woman downstairs did n't want to let me come up verymuch. I told her I was from your home town, and had promised yourgrandmother to come and see you. How surprised Mrs. Burden would be!" Lenalaughed softly as she rose.

  When I caught up my hat she shook her head. "No, I don't want you to gowith me. I'm to meet some Swedes at the drug-store. You would n't care forthem. I wanted to see your room so I could write Tony all about it, but Imust tell her how I left you right here with your books. She's always soafraid some one will run off with you!" Lena slipped her silk sleeves intothe jacket I held for her, smo
othed it over her person, and buttoned itslowly. I walked with her to the door. "Come and see me sometimes whenyou're lonesome. But maybe you have all the friends you want. Have you?"She turned her soft cheek to me. "Have you?" she whispered teasingly in myear. In a moment I watched her fade down the dusky stairway.